My Darling Bandit
by Rei Uta
Summary: A title is a heavy thing. You can't always run away from the responsibilities it brings. Prince! Jack and Bandit! Elsa.
1. Introduction of Prince Jack

Hi there! My apologies for being dead for so long. ^^" Real life killed me and I had to wait a long time before I was fully regenerated. In the meantime, have an updated chapter!

If the writing style is too convoluted or tedious or something, drop me a note and let me know so I can make the appropriate adjustments. I have this bad habit of tying details together in a way that makes them fit either or both of the descriptions above.

Warning: This thing is going to get updates for old chapters even as the new ones are being written and posted because I am **Not** going to let lousy starts ruin the beautiful ends.

Summary: A title is a heavy thing. You can't always run away from the responsibilities it brings. Prince! Jack and Bandit! Elsa.

* * *

For Prince Jackson Overland Frost, a typical morning consisted of waking up in his posh, four poster bed when the first hint of sunlight hits his face. Next, comes washing up in his delicate porcelain basin with a towel of hundred percent fluffiness, followed by a delicious and nutritious breakfast at the Frost family's overly large dining room table. _If_ he was lucky and woke up earlier that particular day, he _might_ be able to eat with his parent, the esteemed King of Burgess.

A regular afternoon would be a day spent in his lonesome company, wandering the halls of the palace and entertaining himself with his own business. Most times, that meant pranking the unfortunate castle staff (who soon learnt to be wary of the nimble and witty young prince whose presence was as undetectable as the snow spirit he was named after). Sometimes that meant training in the courtyard, with sword and fist, archery and leg. (Because despite the willingness of knights who'd been on the butt end of one too many pranks to spar with him, contact was forbidden by the King himself, and so they would evacuate the area when he came in, and whisper mutual dreams of overthrowing the King of Pranks from his regime.)

Other times, he would seal himself away in his empty bedroom chambers and play with the forbidden. Those times, he would stay inside the room long after his session was over, just so he could wait for the ice he had created to melt before he leaves, because this special ability of his is something no one else is supposed to know about.

But he can't help using it either way, because it's too much fun not to. (And because it's_ his_, in a way that little else is despite his status as royalty.)

On the sad days, Jack would be crying inwardly as his personal tutor forces him to study up on etiquette and other princely things that he would rather not have to learn about. Like the lay of his future kingdom, and how it related to everything else. It's not that he's not interested in being the future ruler, but he just doesn't care about geography! If they want to take over his kingdom, let them try. He can zap their asses with a cold, icy blast and win _any_ day!

The life of Jackson Overland Frost is just sad and boring in summary, but that was all about to change.

It all happened the day he decided to follow his sire on one of the latter's diplomatic journeys to a kingdom close by. It was a quiet, rustic kingdom named Arendelle and celebrations cum negotiations were supposed to last a week at most, so the young prince was tasked to stand in charge for that brief period.

If only that worked out.

On the same afternoon when the royal assembly had set off in their carriage, the naughty Frost left his father's trusted adviser in charge, and chased after. He went without any of his royal trappings, choosing only simple necessities and absolute basics, things that anyone would have. Unlike his parent in the fine gilded cage on wheels, Jack traveled undetected via air, and relished in his freedom and control.

Then, he wondered why the man had forbidden him the use of these abilities in the first place, because why keep him away from something so wonderful? Why should he keep them hidden as if the ownership of was a sin and a burden? This feeling of freedom, of dancing with the wind and going where he wished to, with the endless blue sky as his territory and the inhabitants as his prey. Why was it so wrong?

_How_ was it wrong?

This bliss and release. _His_ Eden.

(And his only escape from the prison that was his title.)

Safely concealed from sight among the puff balls in the sky, Jack scans the limitless blue of his current playground and abandons the fickle plans for amusement simmering in his mind for the first crowd of migratory birds he spots in the far distance. He arrows straight towards them, pitting his speed against that of the bewildered group, laughing as the incredible gust of pressure he leaves in his wake disturbs their harmonic formation. Paying attention only to the screaming need to just _be_, he closes his eyes, trusting the wind which carries him, watches him while he flies higher and further, faster and faster until the tumultuous roar of approval in his ears is the only thing he _can_ hear (and if the quiet voice of a child asking for his parent's support and acceptance still remains, he pushes it down, buries and shackles it like a Pandora's box deep in the depths of his deprived soul.)

Jack has flown enough to cover the distance between Burgess and Arendelle at least thrice before the urge is finally spent.

He lies on his back with his legs crossed at the ankles and his arms behind his head, basking in Father Sun's warmth while his trusty sidekick (and almost mother) cools the red that physics and emotion had wrung into his pale cheeks. The deep blues float open, swimming with lazy tranquility behind the white lids and he yawns, loud and careless with happy fatigue as he floats on the breeze towards the kingdom sitting next to his own.


	2. Arendelle

Does anyone feel that Jack is being too OOC? ;x; I hope not. Usually in movies, you don't get to hear all the depressing things he thinks about anyways. So even if he smiles and pranks, he may be hurting and angry for all we know. This just explores more of the angsty and betrayed thoughts and emotions behind the smile, so don't get confused yeah?

Summary: A title is a heavy thing. You can't always run away from the responsibilities it brings. Prince! Jack and Bandit! Elsa

* * *

From his perch on a puffy cloud, (with the moisture starting to drench the legs of his ratty trousers) he studies the layout of the land, observing the tiny houses standing together on mountain ledges and the picturesque castle built on rocks and stone, isolated from the rest. Situated a small distance away from the home of Arendelle's royalty were stout docks and the big vessels belonging to this kingdom and others, their flags swaying proudly in the breeze.

Landing at the top of the hill, a fair distance away from the actual route into the charming kingdom, Prince Jackson takes an inventory of himself, adjusting the baggy white shirt and matching brown cape and pants he had nicked from some forgotten place a while back. He grounds his pale feet against the slightly damp road, collecting dirt on the bare soles because walking without shoes makes him feel rebellious in the simplest of ways, and that tastes like freedom as well. (He is at the point where he'd hoard what small pleasures he can get.)

Then, Prince Jackson Overland Frost of the long, boring titles closes his eyes and opens them as simple Jack.

Simple Jack pulls up the coarse brown hood and pelts into new land.

* * *

Arendelle is a pleasant place. This impression he considers as he munches on a rosy prize, his body weight supported by a delightfully aged stone wall. It's a small mountainous community with sturdy little houses lining the streets in squat, pretty rows. The gardens (if around) are full of green things that glow where sunlight hits the tiny little buds. The people are friendly, calling out to each other and talking about everyday things like how (he assumes) his own people do. There were many tiny shops to choose from, each catering to different needs and manned by villagers with eyes that had forgotten how to smile.

Today, the village is covered in spring colors of red and yellow and green and blue blue blue, because Arendelle's royal flag is a white snowflake on an endlessly blue background, so that's what they had chosen to honor their rulers.

(If Jack tries hard enough, he remembers that the current generation of royals is down to a single princess because her parents had died in a tragic accident a year ago.

But that's none of his concern now, because Plain Jack is not going to be meeting the young princess (no, Queen now, he reminds himself. The coronation had occurred a month after the funeral. He remembers the fight he had gotten into with his evil etiquette tutor over whether it was appropriate to send 'Congratulations' so soon after 'Condolences'.) at all.

No, not he! That honor was one for Prince Jackson Overland Frost to (grudgingly) handle.)

The landscape Jack faces speaks of celebration. The colours hint at warmth, but why does the village feel so cold and lifeless even when the sun is a benevolent father in the sky and the wind is a gentle mother that kisses their cheeks? He wonders what makes the villagers indifferent to the faint thrum of energy in the air that makes him giddy with a joy and anticipation he only feels during winter. (Because it's the one season where he can freely use his abilities anywhere he likes and no one would be any wiser.) He wonders why they remain uncaring when spring beckons insistently in the air and he has to fight the urge to chase after the clouds like the child he had been seasons back. Mostly, he wonders why they seem so dead when he feels so gloriously alive in the sweet, rejuvenating air of new growth.

It's unsettling, because he is winter's most loyal lover, and if he is infected, why aren't they?

He considers the question a moment longer, turning over plausible reasons for. Maybe there was someone who was deathly ill in the little village that they were all worried over?

('Then why would the banners and streamers be up? Don't be silly, Frost.')

Was there a spell cast over them to keep them in frowns just to make them all grow wrinkles?

(He snuck a glance at his own reflection in the clear puddle at his feet, checking out his still striking looks with the careless confidence of the good-looking and the '_subtle_' pride of the young that could poke some unfortunate person's eye out. 'Wow', he reflects, 'I better not smirk lest I make some poor maid faint.')

Maybe they were bored with their jobs and wished to play instead!

(That sounded quite reasonable! It's too great a day out to be stuck behind walls! He would probably feel dead inside too.)

Jack doesn't have to try very hard to ignore the pesky little voice (that sounds suspiciously like his father) scolding him for the irresponsible thought. He swats it away carelessly with a big mental flyswatter ('Wait… What's a flyswatter?') and turns his attention outwards with a new frown.

Responsibility is a chore. It's the reason why he is forced to sit through Pitch's dry lessons on geography (Boring) and history (Dead), duty (Horrid things) and etiquette (Fie! What use is it to him? He doesn't even get to meet anyone!), culture (He'd rather see the festivals in person then read about them) and language (Gaelic? Why learn that when he would never use it?) on a daily basis all year around, why he is forbidden from pranks and the rowdy games favored by the village boys, why he is forced to wander through the cheerless grandiose halls of his castle home without a friendly face to joke with.

It's the reason why the King is his parent only in name, why North (his only friend) had to leave.

It's the reason why at the ripe age of nineteen, the concept of responsibility is one he loathes.

(Because it's the one thing that has sucked the joy from his life.)

The feeling of cool fingers on his clenched fist pulls him back from that tricky little trap and he looks up, his face instinctively schooled into a brilliant smile that fails to light up his eyes, which are blue and black and full of grief. Those eyes meet ones which are a shade lighter, dance on a pretty face with fair skin and rosebud lips currently parted softly in question.

His rescuer is a girl who is not much younger than him, who draws her piano fingers back when his eyes meet hers and smiles hesitantly in reply.

"Are you alright?" She asks the question he had rehearsed for one million times, (even though it's usually yelled at him and has something almost rude attached to the end) and he can't help his plastic smile as his lips answer the way he always had, (with a bit of spunk and a dash of mischief) "of course. Forgive me for worrying you. I think I bit into a worm. Excuse me while I make sure my teeth are still white."

But as he turns to leave, her fingers reach out, warm digits wrapping around his bare arm with a light steel touch. She pulls him back to face her, the slender girl who packs strength in her tiny muscles and upsets his pace.

"You don't look very happy." She murmurs with her rosebud lips, her concern a tingling wave brushing against his cold skin. (He can't help but wonder when was the last time anyone _ever_ saw through the plastic smile. (Though granted they were more concerned with the state of their own persons then.) Can't help but wonder how _she_ could when others couldn't.)

They stay there a while, the pretty young girl in her simple dress attached by an arm to the handsome young man in travelling garb, the two of them immersed in each other's stares like lovers. (He realizes this girl has beautiful eyes. They are blue and bright and remind him of the days when the sky is a roll of unbroken color that merges with the virgin snow in a thin line and the sun sparkles and shine and it's almost too bright to look and too inviting to resist.)

Jack wants to break away, because the relentless stare she wears makes him feel like she can see through him to the depths of his lonely, confused soul, but he doesn't want to at the same time, because it feels like a childish contest that he has to win though he doesn't know why. Eventually, she blinks, closing their rigidly held connection first and he feels like crowing immaturely, but he refrains from doing so, because he doesn't want her to think that he is insane, any more than she probably already does.

But his eyes are now alight with mirth, the blues brighter now and _she notices_ this, along with his slackened fist. There's a new tinge of satisfaction to her lips that says it all, and they share a smile, caught up in private victories. (He's not really sure why he understands the unspoken messages she sends, how she interprets his in return, but the thought of it loosens something hard and cold inside of him and it makes him think that it's okay for her to be the exception even though they'd just met and he doesn't know a thing about her.)

It's a smile that's almost awkward on his lips, because it's been forever since he last felt that gentle twitch upwards at the corners in a way that signals amusement rather than an odd sort of self loathing and pity. And something about it resonates as humor to her, because she laughs. Her laughter is dulcet. It is a tinkling bell infused with amusement, infectious and bright. His is of a lower pitch, it rings rather than tinkles and he thinks it's weird that it sounds huskier then he remembers, but it's the first real laugh he has had in a long time, so it's okay. The melody of their voices blends together in easy harmony and that too is okay, because it's not hard on the ears and it feels rather nice.

The abrupt hilarity fades into a comfortable silence between the two and Jack can't help but notice how much colder his arm feels after her fingers leave their perch. He pushes down the urge to rub warmth back into that spot where five slender fingers had once gripped and pays attention to the silence of his mind, marveling inwardly at the rare peace. It's a delicacy that he plans to savor as long as he can, because he knows it won't not last.

"Do you want it to?" He snaps to attention when she asks, barely stopping himself from flushing when he realizes that he had unconsciously loosened his grip on his tongue. He doesn't respond to the question, but his reaction is enough of an answer. The girl grins at him, and it's a sweet, wonderful smile with a mischievous twist at the corners. She holds up her hand, palm open in welcome and waits for Jack's response patiently.

He hesitates momentarily, feeling the weight of responsibility on his back, then he remembers that he is supposed to be Simple Jack today and inwardly scowls, knowing that the troublesome Prince Jackson Overland Frost had reared his head instead. So he returns the gesture, clasping his larger hand against hers, pale skin against fair, his enveloping her delicate hand as they shake firmly on some unnamed, unspoken agreement with terms that Jack knows nuts about.

"My name is Elsa," she tells him, whispering the information so that he is the only one who hears it, and he doesn't know why it makes him feel special and happier for it.

"I'm Jack."


	3. Meeting Elsa

"Do you, take this fiction to be your spouse in times of sickness and health, til-"

"Wait, what?! No!"

*Gasps from the crowd*

"I'm sorry! But I have a life too and I can't devote all my attention to this one fic til I die! That's impossible! I've got like, bazillions of other stuff planned!"

"If you'd listened, you would've known that you were only going to be shackled to this until it's completed."

"Oh..."

*Crickets chirp*

"Sorry, still no."

(And that's the reason why updates are slow on coming. Hur hur.)

Summary: A title is a heavy thing. You can't always run away from the responsibilities it brings. Prince! Jack and Bandit! Elsa. (Really, why am I pasting this over and over? Surely you know what you've come here for. ==)

* * *

"Jack." She rolls his name on her tongue and he doesn't really understand why or how the way she says it makes it feel so much more different, but it send a fluttering warmth through him that sorts of makes up for the loss of her heat against his hand and grins a response, partially because it's a defense mechanism that he had developed through the years in the cold castle residence, partially because he realizes she looks really adorable when she speaks his name like that, self-conscious, as if she's testing out a new language.

Elsa catches the teasing lift to his lips that he wasn't aware of and flushes, a pretty hue of rose that shades her fair complexion and hints at an inherent shyness. Where he stands, Jack is unknowingly providing her a very good picture of lean, muscled male and youth. Thanks to a combination of genetics and exercise, his body is nicely toned beneath the coarse material he wears and Elsa has to catch herself before her thoughts wander off into a fantasy land of exploration. (A very unhelpful ray of sunlight chooses the same moment to beam down on the young man's shoulders, highlighting the broad length and tempting strength and if Jack hadn't distracted her with a poke to her cheek, she would have helplessly slipped into an innocent daydream of spring romances.)

She pulls herself together quickly, her lips firmly press into a tight line while the roseate hue on her face deepens. Her fair brows knit together in a show of perplexity, maybe mortification and Jack thinks the slight hint of annoyance in her sky blue eyes makes her seem adorable as well. The realization makes him grin, a big curve of lips that shows off two rows of pearly white teeth and Elsa's expression edges precariously close to a pout.

Though her eyebrows inch closer together in an imitation of irritation, the eyes that sparkle beneath them hint at amusement. The pink line of her lips twitch at the corners and her face is open in a way that tells him she would have smiled instinctively in response to his if some stronger desire to play the role of the unaffected maiden had not overtaken her abruptly.

Jack likes the idea of being able to affect this particular girl so, because it's only fair when she makes his insides warmer than they had been in years, especially after the abrupt disappearance of his favorite butler, North. (He remembers the jolly man with an inward pang that has nothing to do with his nightmares and wonders for the umpteenth time where the latter has gone to.)

If he could, he would like to touch her. There's a strange urge in him, a feeling, a voice that urges him to gently press his fingers against the soft flesh of her cheek, to ground himself with the tender suppleness of her skin and to run calloused fingers through her pale blonde hair, because cold, unshakable dread grips his heart, instilling panic with thoughts of 'What if she's just another dream? Another hallucination and fantasy brought on by fits of helpless crying and the desperate, aching need for comfort in any form?' and it's something that scares him more than he is willing to admit to because this girl is the only one who has seen through him, who somehow makes him laugh, be content, and fills up the gaping cavity in his heart, if only just a little, and why would anyone be willing to give up anything which makes them feel so good? (His day has been going well so far with nothing looming in the horizon to disrupt it, and that has never happened before so Jack thinks he's entitled to this self-doubt, to this abrupt terror which snatches him from warmth and sunshine and leaves him cold, cold, cold.)

"Jack?" And again, she yanks his attention back from haunting thoughts and insecurities before they can crawl further up his spine, the fears of Prince Jackson Overland Frost (and really, why does he keep doing this to himself? He's Simple Jack now and those thoughts are the last things which should be on his mind. Those persistent, useless, unwanted words and memories of foreboding darkness which keep surfacing and calling forth attention onto themselves even though he is literally bathed in sunlight, cocooned in spring and there is nothing around which could possibly trigger such depressing nonsense.) and again, he's made aware of those knife like gems she calls eyes, conscious of how they pierce deep into him, as if they could scrap away the clinging dredges of fear and self-loathing and that confused cry of 'why, why, why' from a child who only knew that his world had fallen apart somewhere along the way but had no idea when and how and if there was even a way to find those lost pieces and glue them back together.

Elsa raises her hand, and he can read the concern in every line and movement of the slender anchor moving towards him (because her touch seems to be the one thing that can keep him abreast of such darkness and it's something he desperately wants at any rate) and he is prepared for _that_, and not for the sudden addition of her whole weight on his, (the press of soft, living, flesh against him, and it's not _just anyone_, but pretty, fair Elsa who is gripping onto his sleeve with her steady piano fingers) and it is only thanks to years of training and of building up his quick reflexes that Jack manages to adjust his stance in compensation, (leaning back and lowering his knees to stabilize and ensure both of them can stay on their feet instead of falling to the ground in a heap of undignified) manages to wrap his arm securely around Elsa's pretty back and press her flush against him in instinctive protection from the unknown threat even as his face flushes a similar shade as hers, as his mind splutters to a blessed halt because hey, a beautiful woman (Elsa) is currently, cozily nestled up against him and he'd definitely be madder than the Mad Hatter to _not_ enjoy that, though manners dictate that he let go of her soon, before her impression of him edged from 'the guy with quick and heroically impressive reflexes' to 'that creepy dude who took advantage of me when the ground shook' and wait just a minute there...

His eyes widen as he confirms that the fall is no constructed play, (not that he thinks Elsa is capable of such things. She's just too... Pure. Yeah, that fits. She's pure like newly fallen snow and every bit as captivating.) for he isn't the only one shaking so hard that he thinks he sees doubles. (Maybe even triples, if he puts enough effort into the imagining.) Rather, it is the ground beneath his feet that trembles as if it was alive and about to sneeze. (Elsa is holding on to him, for balance mayhaps, confusion on her features and in that cute quirk of her eyebrows which makes him want to- Focus Jack! Ground shaking!)

Jack looks up, partially because the confused part of his brain insists that it does not want to get dirt snot all over him, and partially because his sharp blue eyes catches sight of the raging dust cloud that seems to come nearer and nearer to him with every second. It is a huge, hulking figure that runs ever closer, with mismatching crags and cloth covering its massive frame. The creature hides its face behind a colorful scarf more suited to a dancer on stage then around its meaty cheeks and neck, and in its bulky hands, it carries something that gleams a bright golden color and captivates his mind.

He snaps to attention then, because his mesmerized brain abruptly remembers how to sense danger and dear Frost almighty, the giant has come at least five meters closer then before and Jack only has so much time to avoid getting the both of them run over by the boulder man. He throws himself out of the way with a nimble ease born through hours of dedication and lonely training, and seconds before his lean frame hits the ground without the wonderful explosion of sound that he had expected, (curse you, impact absorbing dirt!) Jack catches a glimpse of dirty blond hair crammed beneath a dirtier cap. Then his body shoots up almost immediately, because hey, when he flew to the earth's embrace, it felt as if he was the only one who did so, and snowflakes! He was right on that account!

The sun smiles down on him, playing with the fraying ends of his old peasant hood and the white tuffs showing among the brown strands as his eyes follow the man's figure, already rounding the corner to disappear behind another row of houses, with the addition of a familiar girl with braided blonde locks in his arms. A kidnapping?!

'Have to go save her!' He thinks instinctively, body already poised to zoom, but that thought is quickly stalled when a rough hand hauls him back by the collar of his shirt and he gets a terrible eyeful of haughty pride, a crazy bushy mustache of sorts beneath a huge beaked nose, coupled with tiny, rat eyes squashed between lumps of flesh and... And good lord, what is that stench?! (This guy should be jailed for poisoning the air! His poor nose, Jack thinks with an inward cry of horror totally suited to the situation.)

Put off by the sudden rough handling, he barely resists the urge to flinch (_or_ sneeze **_or_** release an icy blast that would be so _very_ _satisfying_) when the man addresses him, "You! Have you seen where the criminal goes?" And Jack blinks because damn, there is a million better ways he can think of to put that particular question across, but since he acknowledges that he can't bully the somewhat muscled oaf without hurting his own invisibility and succumbing to subsequent payback, he stays silent and hopes the man will interpret it as ignorance.

Fortunately for him, Jack's right on this account again. The minion only gives him another shake (probably envying his appearance and how he doesn't need a barrel full of whatever the heck _that stuff_ is, to be attractive) without listening for any reply, almost flings his collar away as if it belonged to some diseased animal and lumbers off. Snorting silently at the fool's back, Jack makes a show of dusting himself off because that creature is clearly the infected one and should be locked up before he deals further harm to the intelligence (and not to mention the nostrils) of society. Really? How slow is he? How blind must one be to miss where the giant had gone off to, right around the bend with Elsa... In... His arms...

Jack smacks his forehead in frustration.

* * *

Armed with his skills, wits and a very basic level of investigative skills, (which kinds of proves that the smelly oaf from earlier wasn't even trying to do his job properly, bastard that he is...) Jack creeps towards the end that his trusty Watson, the wind, guided him to, and though it has been as troublesome as paperwork getting there, he has to admit, it's a pretty good hiding place.

Where the giant has decided to hoard his stolen treasures in, is a place only accessible first after exiting the paved streets and moving even deeper into the mountain terrain, further even then the stout little cottages in their charming isolation.

Jack relies heavily on the faint trace of Elsa's perfume (it's a mix of lavender that's barely there at all and minty cool like fresh snowfall, it's something that wraps around his senses and doesn't let go, or even show signs of doing so and it's striking and unique and Elsa.) imprinted in his memory, and chases after the scent with a relentless fervor that tides him through the natural annoyance that comes with running through a thickly growing forest of Christmas trees that tower three feet over him and who seem to take especial delight in blinding him, tripping him and battering about with their leafy fronds. (It also tides him over that heart stopping moment when he nearly loses it among the thick scent of pine needles higher up after falling flat on his face for the umpteenth time.)

It teases his nose, this slightly sweet, daydream soft fragrance that guides him right out of the forest. And if he didn't have his sidekick with him, it would have led him right into the afterlife too.

Jack hauls himself back from the edge, keenly edged concentration lost to the feeling of drums in his ears, in his veins, and a tap dancer on his heart, because holy Frost! There is no ground there! It's the cliff end that he's staring at with saucer wide eyes and adrenaline pumping through his chest, and the loose soil breaks off to fall into a raging, roaring current in deep, piercing blue that most likely leads out to the greater sea route. It's colder here, now that he thinks about it, with more moisture and spray than the forest holds, and the scent of salt and life mingles with the still powerful one of pine, but it's here that Elsa's trail leads him to and it's here where her scent is mixed with that of others, of smoke and wood and fire and _life _and...

Oh...

It's life he smells now, he realizes with some measure of shock and glee. It's something that triggers an image of the village from before, something that tells him that it is more than likely that this is where they are hidden, although he can't pinpoint exactly where _it_ is yet.

'Nearly there...' The thought is prominent in his brain, all the more so because it's the truth! And it's absolutely frustrating to be thwarted now, when there's a bone deep drumming that insists _almost there almost there so close so close find her _and anxiety surges through his chest, because what if he can't find her? What if he isn't good enough to?

The mixture of both at last pushes him to resort to this, and it is with no small amount of glee that he allows himself to take to the air, because finally... Isolation and peace, no eyewitnesses to bring back news of a mysterious floating figure with silvery white hair that he _knows_ his father will place as him. (Elsa is very important to him although he doesn't know if he is as important to her. Regardless, he's jolly well going to make sure that he secures a place in her heart, whatever it takes. But he can't exactly do that while being confined in that grandiose bedroom a country away.)

With practiced grace, Jack brings himself a distance away from the cliff end, far enough to get a good picture of where he was at previously, close enough to remain securely hidden from sight miles away and it is at this position where he spies a gaping mouth of pitch blackness interrupting one's otherwise normal view of a mountain side while plummeting to their doom several feet below. It is an awkwardly shaped opening barely big enough to fit one person comfortably, and there are no ledges which indicate that this could be one's last hope for survival.

Jack doesn't think much of it, isn't sure that this is the right spot. But here, the scents seem more prominent and so is her perfume and that alone is enough argument to urge him to make his landing inside the entrance with its low hanging ceiling that forces him into an almost squat (that is as uncomfortable as it sounds) in order to waddle further inside.

It gets dimmer and darker the deeper in he goes, and there's a smell of something damp that worries his inner prince's delicate nose. It is truly, a scary sensation to crawl inwards (yes, his legs couldn't take the pain anymore) without hint or clue of where the end was, or even if his assumption was right. Blinded and unfamiliar, it is no surprise that he bumps against the more jagged edges left inside, tears his clothes and flesh, scraps his knees and the palms of his hands and it makes his heart tremble as his senses go haywire, shoving heightened sensory inputs at his overtaxed brain to compensate for the temporary lost of sight. The voices are back again too, harsh, yelled words, crazed, agonized screams that mix about in his head until he can barely differentiate them, until the only thing he truly knows, is the urge to curl up there and cry.

But he doesn't.

(He's not sure why or how or what even, but something gives him the strength to push on, to continue stumbling in darkness and blinding confusion until finally, there is light at the end, light that cuts through the ink around him, light that bubbles into crazy hope that expands in his chest and shoves everything else back.)

Jack shuffles forwards faster, where the further he goes, the more the nighttime fears retreat, and the tunnel widens, allowing him enough room and vision at first, to stop bumping against the sides and injuring himself. Then, it becomes wide enough for him to get back onto his feet, to raise his hands above his head and stretch too tensed muscles and breathe.

The air doesn't bear the distinct smell of wet anymore. Instead, it is miraculously fresher, carries a tint of the firewood and Elsa that drew him in originally. (A strange urge to break into a gleeful dance possesses him, and he does a weird hopping, tapping, shaking, sliding routine of sorts that lasts until he accidentally stubs his toe against an evil rock and has to bite down on the pained yowl so he doesn't alert the villain(s) of his whereabouts and successful penetration of their base.)

Freed from momentary insanity, Jack examines his surroundings, eyeing the rocky room he stands in with suspicion, barely hidden awe and glee. This is definitely a space big enough for the giant to move around in comfortably (though he wonders how would the unfortunate man squeeze his way through that hellish tunnel in the first place) and there are signs of human habitation in the smoothness of the walls here which points to their being filed down to prevent accidental injuries to residents, and the cleanliness of the ground, not at all dusty like he half expects. (And Jack has never really been out of the castle, doesn't really know what to look for, but those are clues that a Pitch trained mind would spot and for the first time in his life, he is thankful for the evil tutor's relentless, ruthless teachings.)

The room branches out into two directions, and Jack wastes a bit more time sniffing about in both like a bloodhound, trying to determine which one was more recently used (and it's hard, because both bear traces of Elsa's scent, intermingled with that of numerous men and it makes him wonder if she is at all, the fair, dainty damsel in distress he'd told himself she is,) but before he takes another step, there's a tingle to his senses that warns him of an ambush a second too late and then there are ropes around him, a bag over his head, both entrapping him with a sudden force and efficiency that tells him that this is a routine thing, certainly something his assailants have plenty of experience in.

'Elsa, Elsa, Elsa,' his mind spins in confusion, not knowing how to react to this new turn of events, because it is fact that Jack has nothing beneath his combat experience belt aside from muscle memory born from hours of training, and even that is restricted to times when his hands are actually free. In summary, he is helpless to this attack and he knows it.

(Jack holds back a groan and a grunt both as Pitch's words play in his mind, the dry reminder that even knowing when to concede is a valuable skill, and well... It's just all kinds of aggravating that the thin, bony man has been proven right, _again_.)

'Stupid,' he curses himself as he is unceremoniously dragged forwards by rough hands (men's hands, he realizes solemnly. This means that he'd really stumbled into their den, which on one hand, crap. He was definitely overpowered here and the possibility of his having to resort to his trump card was strong. On the other, Elsa was near, and the thought was a beacon of comfort lighting up in his heavy chest.) deeper into the hideout. He stumbles, tries his best to grit his teeth and bear the shame of, because if they are going to imprison him, there is a chance that Elsa is locked up somewhere there as well, and it is easier to confirm this fact by submitting now rather than charging in foolishly, getting himself hopelessly lost and vulnerable to another ambush.

When they shove him into a room, still tied up, still blinded, and leave after locking the door with a heavy metallic clang, Jack barely waits to gather his thoughts and freeze the ropes encircling his wrists into ice. Those manacles he shatters easily with a hard blow against the floor and he rips the sack off his head with his newly freed hands. He doesn't pause to admire the room this time, because Elsa's scent is not here and the panic he has shoved down inside earlier starts to bubble up again, but instead, freezes the joints of the thick wood door and shatters them with a full body charge.

The warning cry of the door as it tumbles forward into a new room alerts the villains around, but Jack doesn't stop to wait for them to congregate. Instead, he leap frogs over the short guy lunging at his waist, lands and immediately pushes to his feet to put more distance between them. He makes it out into the rocky hallway, only to dash back in and slam the door behind him at the sight of men already thronging the space, sealing one path of exit.

The dwarf from earlier is already back on guard, with a new bump on his forehead that looks like it hurts a lot, but Jack doesn't really care about that right now, though ordinarily, such a sight would have brought a smile to his lips. "Elsa!" He hollers instead, sucking in breath and expelling it in the shout. "Elsa, where are you?" Then he jumps away from the door nimbly as it bursts open, admitting the wave from earlier and snowflakes! He really should have thought this one through better.

Jack presses his back against one of the oaken doors, glaring around him with narrowed eyes beneath snow white brows and summons winter in a calloused hand. His call lowers the temperature of the room, glows in a sphere of light blue around the appendage and it makes some of them stumble back in surprise. Their leader, (the giant from the market, Jack acknowledges with a scowl frostier than the temperature) doesn't and he bears forward in a charge, clearly meaning to slam Jack against the wall and break his concentration.

It's a foolish move, probably rooted by brave ignorance, because Jack easily glues the guy's ankle to the ground in mid step and watches without pride or shame as momentum carries him forward and slams the heavy body to the ground, eliciting a pained howl as bone clearly breaks. He angles his eyes up, challenging the gathered group who seem rightfully wary now and trains his eyes on the two who dared step forward, (either to help their leader or attack him, he doesn't know, can't tell, but it sure as hell ain't going to stop him from protecting himself. There's more of that where that came from, and they know it.) preparing to strike when a voice, sharp and stern, cuts through the chaos.

"Stop." It is a single word, delivered not with volume, but a force all the same, that causes it to reverberate through the room and be heard by all. It is spoken in a voice that was sweeter, softer, no less confident than the last time Jack had heard it, and his jaw drops as a girl with tightly braided blonde locks steps into the fray through the space the men creates among their ranks for her. She stares around with brilliant blue gems set in a regal, fair face and when they land on him after a brief glance at the fallen giant, he breathes out her name.

"Elsa?"

* * *

On a side note, whew! This chapter took forever even though it started out as a short one in my head! Evil bugger just ran away with me and delayed its launch even though the past few weeks have been killing me with paperwork and I barely have time to write anymore.


	4. The Snuggly Ducklings

Hey! Appreciate this! I gave up my lunch breaks for you! I go back to work tired and hungry and stay that way for a couple of hours until evening where I have to travel almost an hour to reach home! Where food is! Gah!

On another note, I realize that it is so so relieving that my follower count is small enough that I won't need to fear pitchfork mobs and fire torches like the more popular writers do when they are even a day late for their weekly updates. Phew~ Now I can stay with the monthly update scheme as planned. Fu fu fu~

Still, this is **not** an invitation or challenge to whoever out there evil (or bored) enough to gather a handful of people for a small mob! I feel I am redeemed by delivering super long convoluted chunks when I **do** update dangit!

* * *

"Elsa, you're..." He swung his gaze back and forth between them, jaw floor bound in a way that was comically amusing. She smiles at that, the twinkle in her stern eyes informing him that she was finding a lot more amusement in the situation than was appropriate.

"Their leader, yes." When she speaks, her voice carries no mirth and certainly no amount of guilt. (Jack is somewhat upset to realize, because... What?! He had gone through hell for her!) Elsa spreads her arms, looking for all like a conductor at the stand, reveling in the moment of keenly focused attention before a swing of her baton began the performance. "The Snuggly Ducklings."

Right there and then, Jack's brain shudders to a halt. (Not only because he was torn between laughing at the name and potentially earning the ire of the people around him, (whom he could logically freeze and escape from like he was about to do earlier, though knowing now that they were _Elsa's men_ made it all the more harder, as it was her anger he feared most, her hatred, because she is the one he found a connection with outside of the prison walls and he would rather freeze himself to death then ruin what little they had begun to built.)

But also because at the faint edge of his consciousness, the name teased out a memory of being shackled to the dreaded mahogany study table with Pitch at his elbow, waiting intently for him to finish the accumulated reports of information on the neighboring kingdoms, among which was the tidbit that after their beloved rulers' deaths, the ascension of the young princess into a position she was loathe to receive, and her quick engagement to the youngest Prince of the Southern Isles, the group known only (and amusingly) as 'The Ducklings' had begun to terrorize the land, robbing the rich and poor alike.)

He moistens thin lips that are suddenly dry, deep blues lit with comprehension and realization. Oh dear Frost almighty... He is literally standing in the den of the lions right now, with their queen regally and casually waiting for his response, shoulder to shoulder with her troops in a way that hints at years of ease and experience no pretty damsel constantly seated on velvet and gold would have.

Here, is a _Queen_ who fights with her men, who laughs and cries and lives with them. She eats with them, tends to them when they are sick or wounded and mourns the man (not solider) who falls. This... _Something,_ more than kinship, more than mere brotherhood, is what has kept them together and built them into a formidable force that even Arendelle's army in its entirety fails to subdue. A bond forged from favors gained and owned, ties running deeper and holding stronger than blood, moments shared of both laughter and sorrow and hardships and so much more.

This is... Something indescribable. (And it is what he yearns for, he admits with his heart clenching in envy at.)

"Yar," she places a hand on the broad shoulder beside her and whispers commands. The not quite as burly man nods in affirmation, ruffling her hair with a fond hand ("Hey!" She returns the gesture with a scowl so affectionately frustrated, it was adorable.) and moves towards their fallen comrade. (Jack finds himself ordering the ice away without being asked, watching as two of the numbers eases their brother up with a gentleness he hadn't believed such clumsy looking fingers were capable of and bears him gently away.)

"Jack, follow me." He hesitates at this, eyes tearing away from the scene to flick distrustfully at the crowd. (But he meets Elsa's eyes too, and there's so much warmth and belief in them that he find himself captivated once more, unable to protest or defy.)

When Elsa leaves the room with a sweep of her deep green skirts, Jack trails closely behind.

* * *

She leads him to a new room, her study he thinks, because there are tomes and papers neatly stacked on a plain table and an almost crude chair that he thinks shouldn't look as regal as it does the moment she settles into it. Elsa links her fingers together, elbows propped on the desk, and she stares at him with her cute little chin resting on the bridge her fingers have formed. Her eyes are those of a tactician now, guarded, cautious, calculative.

He can understand that though. He is a stranger standing in her territory, reckless enough to invade it by himself and armed with glacier cold at his fingertips. He is a security threat, who may have potentially warned others about them, who may be leading a troop towards their safe spot. He is an outsider who has hurt one of her men, her family.

(What he doesn't understand, is the slightest silver of lingering warmth still present in those pretty sky eyes. It is small and almost buried, but ever bright and so dazzling that he can't write it off as mere hope and fantasy even if he wants to.)

"How did you find us?" She begins simply.

Jack fails to hide a gulp.

Any truth he can possibly give to her is too fiercely and tightly tangled up with his 'uniqueness' for him to be at all at ease in sharing. The danger of her realizing his royal lineage and making use of that also exists, though he shoves that one away. (He doesn't think Elsa capable of such things though obviously, judging by how much she has managed to surprise him within minutes after their initial meeting, his opinion of her is admittedly, not at all reliable. Additionally, by forbidding his wintry displays or exits from the castle, his frosty father had effectively prevented most ordinary folks from being able to instantly pinpoint his position by his 'uniqueness'. So, he's covered in that aspect, if nothing else.)

Though... Given how fantastical everything would seem to the common populace, Elsa might not even believe him in the first place. It would be best to fall back on a more realistic version of the truth, though lying to her...

(He settles for an edited version of his adventure that does not include his creepy bloodhound ability, which she arches an unimpressed eyebrow at but seems to accept nonetheless.)

Elsa shuts her eyes and sighs, a huff of exhausted irritation that he recognizes because Pitch does the same when he is particularly disappointed at Jack's inability to produce significant results in his studies.

"Jack, it's sweet of you to come barging in to 'rescue' me. But you must realize, you're entirely too reckless." He can see her resisting the urge to rub weariness away from the shut eyelids and similarly squashes down the urge to ask if he could provide some icy relief. "Now that you know of our base, we can't let you leave."

The words makes a tightness squeeze his chest because what? It sounds like he had escaped from one prison, only to wander into the next. What?

She probably senses the incredulity coursing through his mind right now, because when she speaks again, her voice is tighter, almost defensive and there's a slight edge of pleading to it that sorts of smooths out the blow of her actual words by a little. "You must understand, it's far too dangerous for us to let you continue floating about now that you know. We are protecting the village and we can't do our job with ease if we know that you're still out there, capable of spreading our secret to the goons about."

The indignant protest that instinctively bubbles up to his throat at the thought that he would betray Elsa chokes as she plows on. "If I were the only one at risk, I would let you go." Clean, perfect teeth land lightly on her plump lower lip and her expression turns into something both shy and cynical.

"I trust you." She says, '_though we've only just met a while ago and there's no reason for me to._' unspoken yet still heard.

(There's a sudden jolt in his chest, like a meaty fist just plowed into his stomach, followed by a double whammy to his nose as dealt by an intensely disgusting, devastatingly sickly sweet stench. But it's not at all as painful as it might sound like. Instead, it's something like warmth and shock and a single ray of brilliant delight cocooned with dainty lavender perfume that leaves him suddenly breathless and overwhelmed.

But...

There's a niggling thought in his head. It forces him to rewind her briefly spoken words because something about it seems off, doesn't fit. It tapers down excitement and joy because hold your horses folks! What is this?!)

"Protecting the village?" His face scrunches up into confusion. "Aren't you guys the evil bandits I've been hearing about? You rob the rich and poor alike and cause trouble for the royal family of Arendelle. Messing up the economy is the least of your crimes."

The adorable look she wore instantly crumbles into a disgusted sneer with something mean and proud twisting her lips. It's an odd look to see on Elsa, almost too crude for her pretty face.

"Lies!" She declares, a righteous fury lights her eyes, and Jack thinks it's amazing how it seems to freeze her victims with its flames instead of burning them. "We are not common bandits! Heck, we weren't even bandits in the first place! The Snuggly Ducklings only stepped in because that fool of a monarch isn't doing anything to help her people!" Elsa growls low in her throat, trembling hands squeezing together as if to contain her emotions, maybe even herself. "Her finance, _Hans of the Southern Isles_, (he notices how she spits it out, as if holding it in her mouth a second longer would poison her) destroys the kingdom, tears families apart and ruins the market with snakes much like himself. The people left suffer in silence, forced to wear false cheers in fear of the tyrant's rule and they push the responsibility of that mess to us?!"

Something rises in her throat, and it's so fiercely wrapped in vivid passion that it makes her voice go almost hoarse and harsh. "Did you not see it? Not feel it?" She demands of him, eyes unwavering, binding, as they pierce through him, as they command empathy and understanding and realization. "There's so much pain and useless fear in them, so much heartbreak that I can't bear it!"

(Elsa's lower lip trembles, her fingers turning empty white from pressure and Jack is on the verge of bolting. Every muscle in his body clenches in anticipation and a foreign need to pull this tenacious, vulnerable woman into his arms, to hold and to comfort and to soothe, because it's plain that their pain hurts her and haunts her as if it were her own even though it logically shouldn't.

But he doesn't.

He can only sit in a not-at-all-comfortable chair that is starting to make his butt go numb, clench his long white fingers in the coarse brown of his pants and watch her begin to pace in the tiny confines of a room not at all big enough to contain even a quarter of the tempest rioting so freely in her smaller body.)

"Elsa..." He breathes out mist and _what can I do to help?_, sitting in the wooden stool with dark dark eyes seeking hers out then blinks. 'Fog?' At one accord the two swing their gazes towards the unseasonal puff cloud that just escaped from Jack's mouth because it's still spring and growth out there last they checked, with winter no where in sight and Jack gulps, because maybe, the fall in temperature is his fault, caused by his failure to rein in his emotions in the face of Elsa's pain and it has never really happened before without his conscious decision to summon the cold in the first place, but in the face of a strange niggling sense of familiar dread that drops to his stomach though he doesn't know why, he feels more inclined to blame it on himself.

He shuts his eyes and draws in new air that hasn't gotten cold enough to sting his lungs until those same lungs feel like balloons on the verge of explosion before he expels it with an audible _whoosh_ and he repeats the action, fighting for the calm he believes will make the room return to normal. He opens his eyes on hearing a smaller whoosh and his nervous vision is filled with Elsa, biting down on her lower lip again, a similar expression of concentration and guilt on her pretty face as she copies him.

(_Did he scare her too?_ The thought makes him freeze up inside and he has to forcefully relax the tensed up muscles again.)

"El, things kay in there?" There's concern palpable in the gruff voice that speaks abruptly, and Jack barely resists from flinching as the temperature dips again.

"Hm, yeah." She responds a second later, tone absentminded. "Is Kris comfy?"

"Lad's been asking fer ya." It's a snort that accompanies this reply, almost amusement and understanding and identical worry. "Tied down like a hog now." Another short guffaw. "Reckon he'd take five this time."

That brings a grin, small and bright and comfortable on her lips. "I reckon I'd best be off now aye?"

"Aye."

Heavy footsteps plod off, leaving the study pleasantly chilly. Just as Jack thinks he is about to catch a quick break to process that whirlwind of events, Elsa's finger lands daintily on his shoulder and he peers up to meet friendly winter skies again. "Come on, we must get going now."

He tilts his head to the side in confusion, face scrunching in same as Elsa wraps coarse brown fabric in her hand and drags him to his feet with a sudden strength that makes him almost stumble and humiliate himself. She releases him with a light chuckle, all good humor and tranquility once more as she turns to the heavy oak.

"Let me introduce you to your new home."

* * *

She was completely, utterly serious about that. Why does that surprise him?!

Elsa had given him a very basic tour of their mountain side hideout, which covered common areas like the living room ("This is the den, we do everything here." "Everything?!" "**Everything.**" _Odd gulp sound no one hears_), the kitchen ("How do you even cook here?!" _Careless shrug that makes him want to pull his hair out_), his bedroom ("Wait, where do you wash and stuff in this place?!" _An 'are-you-stupid-we-are-in-a-forest-and-there's-a-river-below' look that makes him die a little more inside_) and while she was at it, introduced him to everyone they bumped into on the way. ("Jack, this is Kyle, Dyke, Mike, Lan, Tory, Skip, Dipper, Yar, Usunagi, Canoe, Frisk, Roy, Brad and Lemur." _Orz orz _"Oh! There's Kip and her crew over there~" _'There's more?!'_)

Finally, Elsa drags the half-dead boy to a new door that is accessible after climbing a set of stairs up from where Jack's new bedroom is and raps smartly on the wood that Jack has every right to be concerned about because there are sounds of what appear to be a brewing argument in there, what with the yelling and the crashing and banging and... Well, it's violent in there. Do they really have to go in there?!

"Sod off!"

"You sod off twat!"

"You're killing me!"

"It's medicine!"

"It's poison dammit!"

"Quit complaining and suck it down ya wimp!"

"I'd like to see you do it first!"

"I'm not the one with a broken ankle, yeti!"

"At least I'm stronger than a skeleton like you!"

"Why I oughta-"

"**Boys!**"

The wood (how did they even get so much down here in the first place? Now that he thinks about it, Jack is even more impressed.) bounces off stone with an ungodly roar of pain as Elsa strides into the fray. Jack tries his best not to be noticeable as he tip toes away but the effort nearly chokes him as Elsa somehow anticipates his move, and drags him behind her by the old poncho. What is he? A dog now?!

Inside, the giant he injured is laid out on a wooden slab with a stingy layer of cloth beneath it. He is also shackled down with thick ropes. Why is he bound up like that? Jack doesn't know but has a sneaking suspicion it has something to do with how the other is resisting efforts to help him recover. Heck, that broken ankle doesn't seem any less broken or treated than the last time he's seen it, which is minutes ago when he'd created it.

"Paps, why is he not medicated?" Elsa speaks in a voice so carefully devoid of emotions that Jack cringes, though he doesn't really know why. But seeing the named Paps (who is a lanky, skinny fellow, more bag of skin and bones than human really) cower in his boots, he thinks that it's probably a natural reaction, particularly as the one he dubiously places as 'Kris' finally calms and looks guiltily to a side.

The mountain man grunts and shifts a little more, exposing the swollen leg to slightly stale air and Elsa's piercing scrutiny.

(Jack doesn't know whether to think him smart or brave cause he hasn't even been here for a full day and he's already scared of Elsa's effective array of submission-inducing stares. What's more, though her eyes are focused on 'Kris's' foot, and she appears to be holding a hand out for the bandages Paps smoothly hands over, he can still feel the penetrative heat of it radiating out. In fact, she's so deeply absorbed in her task, it feels like she's looking at the bones in 'Kris's' meaty leg themselves and securing the strips accordingly, though such a thing isn't possible at all.)

When the leg is secured, Elsa steps back to examine her handiwork for a beat or two. She's probably satisfied with what she's done, Jack thinks, because that unconscious smile slips onto her face, curling the corners of her unpainted lips and she looks really pretty like that, particularly now that the focus hardened corners of her eyes also loosen up and her expression returns to that of a simple, pretty girl.

'Kris' tests his leg, hazel nut gaze examining the binds before he looks up with a grin that is caught between happily bashful and cautious diligence. "Thanks El." Those same eyes go stone cold when they rest on Jack though, few footsteps behind Elsa, and his voice falls into the gruff end of the precarious gruff-mellow scale. "What's _he_ doing here?"

Jack tenses in return, mentally flexing muscles as their mutual hostility electrifies the air and manifests as a comically dangerous exchange of lightning bolts from one set of hazel nut to the other set of storm cloud blue.

(It makes Elsa sigh and mutter something barely discernible about 'too similar, reckless pig heads' that brings color to both of their cheeks because 'why would anyone want to be compared to _that guy_?! What an insult!')

"Paps, Kris, this is Jack, our newest member. Jack, Kris and Paps." She extends a hand, yanks the poor Frost close enough for the bedridden giant to kick. "Give him a rundown of things while I finish up my work."

Expertly ignoring the incredulity that earns her, Elsa strides smartly over to the door and makes a graceful exit. "Paps, keep them alive for me until I get back." ("Will do El!")

Jack keeps his eyes on the door, inwardly praying for a miracle, like Elsa returning in 0.01 seconds to say "Oh hey, I've decided to take our new prisoner with me instead because I can't stand not being around his awesomeness, so you loser can chill. Peace~" but all he gets is a _'gentle poke'_ to the back of his thighs that almost makes him fall over and kiss the dubiously clean floor.

He catches himself with the help of some impressive footwork and whirls about to meet Kris's mountain bear glare with a snow leopard's killer intent.

"Stay away from Elsa, brat." As far as growled threats went, that one was pretty impressive when coupled with the temporarily bedridden man's muscular frame and slightly dim look.

"Make me." Jack ignores Paps's light tugs and horrible throat clearing and angles his chin, assuming the well-grounded airs of a snooty young noble with an ego so high it rivaled the tip of pretty castle Arendelle.

Prince Jackson Overland Frost is a boy who grew up in carefully constructed solitude, who has lived through loss after loss in his young life even though he is a pampered palace brat and war was only mentioned in history books and dusty old parchments. He is a child who has been tossed into complete darkness, who has shattered somewhere along the way and is unable to even locate those broken fragments because there is nothing else inside which could hint at where or what they were.

Yet, he is also a boy who has fully embraced whatever else was left of him to him, who effectively plays up mischief and taunts and ego and skills to fill in empty aching gaps, and who plots and plans with a brain stuffed full and almost leaking with lessons and learnings from a bony young tutor. He is a child who ran off the moment his parent let him be, who has finally found something so much more real and infinitely precious then stolen moments of airborne delight and powdery, empty fun. Someone who made him chase blindly through a forest with an abominable love for tripping and whacking innocent pursuers, dive deep into the heart of a cliff via a tunnel of darkness that almost broke him and face off against a whole group of bandits who were allegedly, the greatest gang of scumbags to ever tread on Arendelle soil.

So in the face of all that, like hell was he going to let this simple human sidekick get in the way of his blue and blonde treasure.

He's about to release another shot, fire another verbal bullet at his opponent, when he finds himself toppling backwards with the help of a non-too gentle tug, and before his butt has even greeted some kinda surface, someone is already grabbing at his hands, and almost yanking his arms straight out of their sockets. He opens his mouth to protest, fight back, something, and a flat stick is pressing his tongue down and the same someone is pressing his cheeks together to keep his mouth that way and clicking their tongue in a maddeningly familiar way.

"I say, how did you get yourself this way, Jack my friend?" And Jack realizes a minute too late that it is Paps who is manhandling him and making the annoying 'tsk, tsk,' sounds people make when they are disappointed at something. He scowls, dark brown, almost black grey eyebrows knitting together in irritation now that they aren't being kept apart by confusion.

"I suppose if you must crawl through that dingy little thing on your lonesome, you'd certainly collect a fetching presentation of these." Paps is too strong for him to overthrow though. The much taller man is very, very effectively bullying him into a sort of medical check up and treating his wounds, all the while releasing a stream of chatter and blabber that Jack is entirely unable to interrupt because he can't get enough air for a magnificent yell with Paps continuously poking and testing and wrapping all air out of him. ("Oh goodness! How long have you been out there?! These clothes of yours are filthy! In the tub they go!" "My clo-!" "Now, now, don't fuss my friend! We'll give them a scrub scrub scrub and they'll be clean as a pin when you get them back! No need for thanks! Courtesy of Paps's service~" "No! That's not-" "Now, now, settle down and let me see those lines!")

He's supposed to be half-naked after the overly enthusiastic man steals his clothes, but he's soon wrapped in so many bandages, they look like some unorthodox white shirt on their own. He's dizzy and ruffled and after Paps is done and lets him **breathe** in that tiny chair/stool thing, Jack slumps down and presses his head between his knees until the faint taste of nausea abandons the back of his throat, all the while horribly aware of the prickling of his skin that tells him that the other patient is muffling amusement, almost laughing yet still pitying him.

'Is this why they have such a strong sense of comradeship here?' He thinks faintly, heroically holding back a groan. 'Is it cause there are crazy people here with them?'

Vaguely aware of Paps leaving with the shirt off his back, Jack painfully assumes a position of some dignity and his stare reads drop dead tired and drained in a way that makes the room's other occupant leave off hostility for something almost friendly and kind. "Torture by Paps ain't enough to get us to trust ya, twerp."

'_But it's a good start._' Jack adds silently to himself, resisting the urge to slump onto the floor.


End file.
